


Heroic

by sprl1199



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, M/M, Superohero AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-09
Updated: 2011-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-25 21:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprl1199/pseuds/sprl1199
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The first time John saw the Aristotelian Avenger, the other man was in the middle of facing down the Crimson Curmudgeon.</i></p><p>John/Sherlock pre-slash, Superhero!AU, Crack.  Oh, such crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heroic

**Author's Note:**

> This is not at all what I usually write, but I think my brain was rebelling after spending way too many days saturated in psychological case!fic, because the idea just wouldn't leave me alone:
> 
> Mostly crack with a wee bit of character study (kinda), un-beta'ed, and not Brit-picked.  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> I REFUSE TO APOLOGIZE!!

_"There's no such thing as heroes, John. And if there were, I wouldn't be one of them."_

 **[Heroic]**

The first time John saw the Aristotelian Avenger, the other man was in the middle of facing down the Crimson Curmudgeon.

“Haha ha!” the villain yelled in his somewhat high-pitched voice. “ _Fool_! You cannot hope to escape my vermilion vacuum!! Prepare yourself for certain DOOM!”

There was a moment of intense heat followed by a strange, sucking sound—rather like something being pulled up through a straw—and, with one giant intake of breath, the crowd of onlookers that had thronged the small park gasped in horror.

John hadn’t been planning on coming to the aid of justice that day—his only real plan had been to get some lunch and perhaps look at a few flats there were being let—but nonetheless he tried to step in and help, revolver and shield already held at the ready. He’d only made it a couple of steps when Stamford grabbed his cape.

“You’d best stay clear,” Stamford advised stodgily. He was a very stodgy person, Stamford. Had been ever since they had begun the Might & Right Academy together so many years ago, and John hadn’t seen much of a shift during their brief reintroduction that day. “He’s not someone you’d want to get involved with.”

John blinked back at his old school chum and tried to surreptitiously free his cape. In hindsight, it seemed a bad addition to the uniform, but Harry had insisted, and he hadn’t wanted to take the time for a complete redesign while resettling in London. “What, the Crimson Curmudgeon? I thought he was a bit of a joke, actually.”

“I didn’t mean him,” Stamford replied grimly.

“I think you’ll find that a true vacuum—despite providing hours of entertainment to discussions of quantum mechanics that would otherwise be torturous—is not realistically achievable under experimental conditions.” A smooth, assured baritone wound through the crowd like melted chocolate and pooled in John’s ear. “There’s no method currently in existence to remove the blackbody particles that would, by necessity, be present. Therefore, that little device of yours cannot possibly exist.”

Freeing his cape, John executed a small, but heroic, hop and managed a look over the crowd just in time to see a large, rounded, red object—it looked to John a bit like an overgrown Anjou pear—vanish in a flash of silver light. The scent of ozone permeated the suddenly cold air (John could see his breath for several seconds before the summer temperature reasserted itself), and the crowd fell into abrupt, shocked silence.

“Much better,” said Aristotle in the chill quiet, and John couldn’t help but stare.

He was all tangled dark curls and precise cheekbones: wrapped in a dark wool coat that fell in a dramatic, tailored line to mid-calf.

John pushed a bit closer, jostling a few people in the crowd, and slanted, oddly pale eyes made contact with John’s own as they sought the source of the disturbance. For a moment, John stopped breathing.

“NOOOOOO!” The Crimson Curmudgeon wailed, prodding time into advancing properly again. “My most marvellous creation! You will _pay_!”

John was moving before the mad scientist began to reach inside his tattered lab coat. He pushed past five or so frozen (unhelpful) citizens, vaulted over another, and executed a diving roll that left him facing the Crimson Curmudgeon with his revolver drawn and the tall, slim hero at his back.

“I’d think twice about that, if I were you,” John told the Curmudgeon in his calmest, most G.U.A.R.D-esque voice. “I won’t miss at this distance.”

The Crimson Curmudgeon hesitated for a moment, peering suspiciously at John as he evaluated the truth of the words. John could see the moment he decided to go for whatever he’d hidden away in his lab coat—John had never been a very good liar, as his former teammates were always quick to point out in frequently despairing tones—but the moment of hesitation was enough.

“Urg,” the scientist said as he was tackled by a large Constable that had finally managed to push through the crowd. More Constables followed, including a pair on horses that trotted up in an oddly anachronistic display of law enforcement, and in short order, the Crimson Curmudgeon was subdued and cuffed and all was right once again in London.

“Thank you for keeping him busy for us until we could set up a perimeter,” the DI said to John when the police were loading the Curmudgeon into the lorry. “You’re with G.U.A.R.D.?” He asked, having spotted John’s veteran pin. “Golden Soldier, yeah?”

“I was, yes,” John replied, vaguely, to both questions. “Look, I hardly did anything here. You should be thanking him. I just came in at the last moment.” He turned to indicate Aristotle, and the DI’s face—Lestrade, he had said his name was—darkened.

“Thank you again for your assistance,” Lestrade said to John stiffly. “It’s a pleasure to work with a professional.”

The DI strode away, and John heard a dismissive snort come from the man behind him.

“I’ll send you the invoice for my time today, Inspector. You’ll find my rates haven’t changed since the last ten times I’ve assisted when your men were in over their heads.” The voice was cooler this time, but the smoothly confident tone appeared to be default. Lestrade’s steps didn’t falter, but he must have heard.

“Yes, well.” John had absolutely no idea what to say. Judging by the rather remote look he was receiving, the other man wasn’t going to help him. “Good job, there.” He held out his hand, and Aristotle shifted his gaze to it with a strange expression, somewhat nonplussed lines sketched at the corners of his eyes.

It only lasted about three seconds—but it was an extremely _awkward_ three seconds—and then John dropped his hand. “I’ll be seeing you around, I suppose,” he said lamely, before turning to leave.

“Your weapon,” Aristotle began, clearly unable or unwilling to respond to verbal cues with appropriate timing. “It doesn’t fire bullets.”

John turned back around. “No, it doesn’t.” It actually fired ‘good’—as the old, Behdin priest who had given it to John in Afghanistan had explained it—though John absolutely loathed explaining that one, but only at those with truly and wholly evil souls. Unfortunately, very few of the men and women John had fought could be said to be ‘truly and wholly evil,’ so most of the time, he simply used it as a makeshift club and relied on his martial arts training during combat.

“You stood between me and an imbecile with no regard for the laws of physics without a working weapon.” It was said without inflection, and John had absolutely no idea how the other man felt about the statement.

John nodded. “I did do that, yes.”

“Why?”

“Instinct, I suppose. It worked, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” Aristotle said succinctly before trailing off. He stared at John with a small furrow between his eyes, as though attempting to make sense of a bizarrely alien being that had abruptly appeared in front of him.

John hated being stared at. “Right, I’ll just be getting on then.”

He made it about five steps before Aristotle spoke again. “Your cape is impractical. And ridiculous.”

John rather agreed, but still. “Says the man wearing wool in July.” He resisted turning around to see how Aristotle had reacted for all of two seconds before giving in and looking back over his shoulder.

The other man blinked at him, blank-faced, as he presumably processed what John had said. Then he smiled: a smirk that twisted one side of his lips slightly more than the other and made him look...

“We’re going to be late,” Stamford’s hand on his shoulder startled John enough that he jumped.

When he looked back toward Aristotle, he saw dark curls above a darker coat disappearing down the pavement, the majority of the bystanders stepping quickly out of his way while a few of the braver ones used their mobiles to snap photos. John watched him go.

Stamford watched John watching and sighed. “You really are a masochist, aren’t you?”

**

One of the witnesses to the event managed to capture a very good—if somewhat blurry—shot of John staring down the Curmudgeon with Aristotle dramatically visible over his left shoulder, and it was plastered all over the Internet within a few hours.

His sister did not approve.

"You're completely bonkers, you know," Harry said, leaning her head so far to the side so that the headband with the little golden wings (which John thought looked so silly but which their mother had designed) slid down her hair and almost fell into her pint. John caught it and used the strategic position of his hand to push her back upright. She didn't appear to notice.

"Absolutely barkers. I mean, really. What _were_ you thinking?" she asked ramblingly for what must have been the third time. She hadn't actually had that much to drink—the pint in front of her being her first of the evening—but whenever she and John met up in a bar, she soaked up the inebriation around them: osmosis of lowered inhibitions and muddled reflexes. It was a hazard of being an empath, but John always got the impression Harry didn’t mind all that much.

John made a mental note (not for the first time) to suggest they meet at a restaurant next time. Or a zoo. At least this time she had suggested a ‘capes’ pub frequented by those costumed adventurers of a primarily law-abiding persuasion, so the chance for actual carnage was minimal.

John didn't shrug at her question, but only because it would have twinged his shoulder, which had never completely recovered from the shrapnel that had lodged in it. Alien metal and all. "He's really not that bad," he said to his sister, taking a pull on his own pint. "I don't know what all the fuss is about."

Harry widened bleary eyes and made a violent wind-mill gesture toward the bar. "The fuss? The _fuss_? Do you see that bloke there?"

Her hand was still moving in a vaguely circular motion around ten or so patrons gathered on stools.

"No."

"That one," the hand jabbed energetically with two fingers, and this time John made out the subject: a pale, rather moon-faced man leaning over his drink with a dejected hunch to his shoulders.

"What about him?"

"He used to be Atomaestro."

John looked at the figure again in surprise. "Him? I think I remember hearing about him once. Stopped Mr Web, didn't he?" John had always been a bit of sucker for the C-list heroes and made it a point to read a bit further in the papers to learn about their exploits. They deserved to be recognized just as well as the bigger names that basically drenched the front page.

"Mmmm," Harry said. She obviously had no idea what he had or hadn't done. "He was a hero, up until he had a run in with Aristotle."

John’s intuition let out a little, unpleasant chime in his head. "What happened?"

"Got into an argument about something—no one knows what, and Atomaestro won't say—and then Atom must have said the wrong thing, because the next thing you know, he's as mundane as they come. No powers at all."

As though he heard them, the man who used to be Atomaestro dropped his head onto the bar with a resounding thump and followed it up with two clenched fists and a mournful shout. "Why do things like this always _happen_?" A few of the costumed heroes gathered at the bar glanced at him and moved away a few feet, but otherwise no one reacted. It seemed to be a rather frequent occurrence.

"You don't mean that Aristotle..." John trailed off.

Harry nodded sagely, headband slipping lower on her forehead. "That's exactly what I mean."

"Well that's...that's horrible," John said. And it was. "Is he alright? Atomaestro, I mean."

Harry waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, he's a wanker. Don't think about him. What you need to worry about, is _you_. If Aristotle could do it once, he could do it again. He doesn't care about heroes."

"But isn't he a hero as well? Why would he take out someone on his own side?" John didn't understand. The one thing you could take as gospel in G.U.A.R.D.—pretty much the only thing—was that your teammates and the various and sundry agents they occasionally allied with could be counted on to watch your back.

Harry huffed into her empty glass, breath fogging up the sides, and heaved herself to her feet. "Aristotle isn't a hero. Doesn't believe in them, he said. Do you want another?" she asked, gesturing toward his glass.

"No. No, thank you," John replied, and she walked toward the bar without stumbling, seemingly sobered instantly by absorbing the feel of the icy ball of lead that had coalesced in John’s stomach.

**

The second time John had a run in Aristotle, it was while John was in the process of stopping a bank robbery.

“We meet again,” Aristotle said as he crouched next to John behind the alley skip.

John stifled the urge to start in surprise. With the plasma beams shooting over his head, there was a good chance it wouldn’t end favourably.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed, risking a glance at the other man. Aristotle looked just as he had three days before—though the colour of the shirt under the coat may be different, John was horrible with things like that—and seemed completely unconcerned by the chaos erupting around them.

Aristotle arched an imperious eyebrow. “Rendering aid. Obviously. Your weapon is useless, while theirs would vaporize you instantaneously.”

John glared. “One, my revolver isn’t useless. They’re just not evil enough for it to work on them.” Aristotle gave a bit of a sneer, but John ignored him. “And two, I don’t need aid. The situation is under control.”

The leader of the gang—Clown Control, whose name and accompanying costumes had John scoffing up until they began throwing corrosive pies at him—chose that moment to detonate the charges he’d set at the vault. The resultant, vaguely purple fireball shot some fifty metres above the bank’s roof and left the air smelling of sulphur.

“Not a word,” John told Aristotle under his breath before making his move on the clowns, who had apparently been shocked immobile by the size of their own explosion. John always appreciated those villains who played a part in foiling themselves, which, frankly, was the majority of them.

The next few minutes were extraordinarily hectic as John handled the leader with a well-placed blow to the head and then turned his attention toward disarming the strangely luminous doomsday weapon the gang had brought as a failsafe, but he did catch Aristotle out of the corner of his eye a few times: vanishing the gang’s oversized, flower-shaped plasma weapons with a few devastating words and following it up by taking down those still standing with graceful, efficient kicks and strikes. It was a bit like watching a particularly violent ballet, and John felt a pang of regret as he forced his attention back to the weapon.

John slipped away once the police arrived on the scene, though not before he ordered one of the paramedics to confirm Aristotle hadn’t been injured during the battle (at first he had simply requested, but when that didn’t yield the result he wanted, he went in for blatant intimidation with only minimal regret).

He made it on the news again anyway.

**

The third time John saw Aristotle, it was from a distance. The Xenographics had decided to invade at Trafalgar Square, and London’s superhero community was out in full force (including the Epsilon Squadron, and they had ostensibly been retired for almost eight years).

John was battling a pair of twin Graphions along with Good Knight when he caught sight of a tall, slim figure in the midst of the pandemonium.

“They need support to the east!” John yelled to Good Knight as he clubbed one of the pair. It dropped insensibly to the ground, and the other whirled off into the air in a panic. They weren’t equipped to operate individually.

“Right, ho!” Good Knight returned cheerfully, and led the way through the hubbub.

The east side of the square certainly did need the extra support, and if it gave John a better vantage point to keep an eye on Aristotle, well, it was pretty clear that no one else was watching out for him. Someone had to have his back, danger to heroic society or no.

After Empress Xenia had been neutralized and Force UK was orchestrating a preliminary peace agreement, John saw Aristotle out of the corner of his eye. He was staring at John, mouth a perplexed line, and then he began to approach.

“Fine work today, Knight,” John said, giving the other man a comradely smack on the back. “Hope to do it again sometime. Only, well, without the invasion of course.”

John fled before the other could respond. Or before Aristotle managed to reach him.

**

“I despair of you, I really do,” Harry said the next time John and Aristotle appeared in the news together, this time thwarting Auto-maton’s attempt to co-opt a vehicle factory for the creation of controlled, weaponized MINI convertibles. The Mauve Marauder had been there too, not that you’d know it from the news coverage. “You know everyone thinks you’re his sidekick, right?”

“I’m not, but that doesn’t stop people from talking.” John replied, leaning back on the bountiful number of cushions the hotel seemed to think his bed required. The muted news program still had a photo of Aristotle projected into the space over the anchor’s shoulder and had for the last several minutes. John could understand: he was certainly more photogenic than either John himself or Auto-maton.

Harry sighed despairingly at John’s expression from where she sprawled on the mattress at his feet. “You’ve never been good at staying away from things that are bad for you.”

“And what is Clara up to these days?” John asked. He had learned years ago that mentioning his sister’s on-again, off-again soul mate was the best way to get Harry to shut up about something. It worked this time too.

“Gotta go,” his sister said, jumping to her feet and snagging one of John’s granola bars from the pile on the desk as she walked to the door. “And call the estate agent today. You’re not in G.U.A.R.D. anymore. You can have more than a box for living space.”

“This is enough,” John told her. “It’s comfortable.”

Harry gave him a knowing look. “It’s liveable, brother mine, but there’s no way it’s ‘comfortable.’ It’s time to get a flat and put down some roots in London. You can’t just drift forever.”

“I’m not drifting,” John protested, though not as hard as he could have. It was true that he had been putting off the phone call to the estate agent, but the thought of ‘roots’—of stillness and stagnation—made him shudder.

“Uh huh,” Harry said dubiously. “If you won’t call the estate agent, at least call Mum. She rings me every couple of days asking about you, and it’s about to drive me batty. You need to intervene if only to save my sanity.”

“Bit late,” John said immediately, then deftly caught the granola bar that Harry hurled at his head (which was the intention of the comment to begin with: she could never resist throwing whatever was handy).

“Stop wasting time!” she yelled, slamming the door on the way out.

Once he was alone, John stared contemplatively at the granola bar, twirling it in his hand as he thought about G.U.A.R.D., the injury that had ended his career, roots, when he had surrendered control of his life, and what, exactly, he wanted for his future.

**

The next time John met Aristotle, he was doing his level best to stay away from him. Honestly.

"Are you avoiding me?" came the smooth baritone as John was bent over tying up the last of the muggers. He resisted the almost automatic urge to pull up his shoulders to protect his vulnerable neck.

"Well, umm, yes," John replied. He really was rubbish at lying.

"Sorry," he added belatedly as he gave the knot one last solid tug and turned to face his companion. Aristotle didn't look particularly upset by the verification: strange, lovely face as composed as ever and pale eyes fixed with unwavering intensity on John's own.

John felt the skin at his cheeks begin to warm and turned back to the unconscious muggers before Aristotle could see it. "I heard what happened with Atomaestro," he said over his shoulder as he rechecked the knot he had just tied. Silence greeted his statement.

"I see," Aristotle said at last before stopping. He paused so long, John almost turned back around, but he forced himself instead to check his prisoner's pockets for stolen goods or weapons. Again.

"I won't trouble you again," Aristotle said (and his voice wasn’t angry or upset but it was _empty_ , and then John did whirl around.

"Wait,” he blurted to Aristotle’s retreating back, and Aristotle did. He didn’t turn back around to face John, but he canted his head back slightly to indicate he was listening.

“I never thanked you for coming to help the other day,” John said. He hadn’t really planned the words, and they felt entirely inadequate in the face of Aristotle’s destruction of a fellow hero’s career, but with a sudden flash, he realized that any words would be better than the silence Aristotle would leave behind if he walked away.

Harry was right: it was time to stop wasting time.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Aristotle said. His voice was still a bit stiff. Cautious, John would say, had Aristotle been anyone else at all. “You assisted me during my own encounter. It seemed only fair that I return the favour.”

“Still,” John replied. “I appreciate the back-up. I’m still not completely used to working alone.”

Aristotle turned around at last, and it was like the tension of the previous minutes had never been present. “Yes, that’s right. You recently left G.U.A.R.D., didn’t you?”

“Injury,” John explained, though the question hadn’t been asked. “The team voted and decided that I could use some time to recuperate.”

“How did you vote?” The question was asked without any sort of undercurrent, but John felt himself tense a bit. He had voted to stay, of course. _He_ had voted that he was the only one who should have any vote whatsoever about his life. But he had been overruled, and maybe it was all for the best, anyway. Maybe.

Aristotle didn’t appear to mind that John hadn’t answered his question. “What about that sister of yours? Lesbedazzler? It seems logical that you two would work together.”

“Lady Emotionia,” John corrected automatically. “She changed it again.” Then something occurred to him. “How do you know I have a sister? Have you been spying on me?”

“Of course not. You mother has a publically accessible blog about the two of you. It’s not information that’s difficult to come by.”

That was true enough (John had repeatedly asked his mother not to post photographs, at the very least, to no avail), but Aristotle had hesitated a beat too long before replying. John didn’t know if he was more excited or appalled by the thought of the other man checking up on him, so his body settled for something in-between, resulting in mild nausea and another looming blush.

John heard sirens approaching and cast a quick, mental thanks to good timing. “I already gave the Met a call to pick this lot up. Do you, umm.” This was such a bad idea. “Do you want to go for something to eat?”

“Italian. I know a place,” Aristotle answered immediately. He took a couple of purposeful steps down the pavement before something seemed to occur to him, and he turned back to face John. “Is that agreeable?” The borderline cautious tone was back. John found it endearing, which without a doubt meant that he was completely doomed.

John’s answering smile was so wide as to be ridiculous, he just knew it. “Italian would be excellent.”

**

“Beware his dark magick beams!” Acrobattle shouted as he dove—in a rather sprightly manoeuvre—out of Master Occult’s line of sight and scaled the walls of the cavernous warehouse. Or perhaps he merely hid behind one of the monstrous pieces of machinery. It was all a bit difficult to see: the shadows on the floor seemed to be shifting with a life of their own, and the green glow of Occult’s partner, Dr Cybero’s, gamma field gave the scene a strangely botanical feel. Which was rather disconcerting when paired with the disabled robots strewn about the floor.

“How discerning,” Aristotle muttered sourly to Acrobattle’s warning. “I’m so glad we invited him along.” Despite the tone and matching expression, he moved quickly to join John behind the remains of a cinderblock wall as the dark sorcerer turned in their direction. Dr Cybero was already out for the count, knocked unconscious when Aristotle—rather creatively—disproved his oddly-fashioned, bionic legs out of existence, but Master Occult was proving to be a more resilient villain.

John grinned at Aristotle. “I know you appreciate any opportunity to make observations about others’ intellects. Don’t pretend you don’t find him to be an especially good target.”

Aristotle didn’t respond, but his lips turned up slightly at the corners in a look John had come to associate with Aristotle’s particular brand of amused-while-also-focused-on-mortal-danger. He had also come to associate it with a noticeable increase in his own heart rate, which was inconvenient.

“How do you want to play this?” John asked, more to get himself back on track than because he needed instruction. They’d teamed up enough by now that he already knew the preferred strategy.

“You’ll be decoy, of course—it’s what you’re good at—while I-” Aristotle cut off, paling dramatically (a feat John wouldn’t have thought possible, given his colouring).

John whirled about to see Acrobattle launching himself—truncheons whirling—at the eerie violet glow of Master Occult’s staff.

“Have at thee!” Acrobattle shouted.

“No!” Aristotle yelled at the same moment.

John didn’t bother to yell. He didn’t even bother to strategize. Quicker than thought, his body was moving: pushing Aristotle down to sprawl behind the cinderblock wall and charging at Master Occult with his shield.

As Acrobattle’s baton impacted Occult’s staff, there was a sound of shattering, and the magicks centred in the orb affixed to the top rushed out in a violent torrent of arcane energy. Drawn like a magnet to its polar, scientific opposite, the stream of purple light barrelled unerringly toward the unstable gamma field that Dr Cybero had created.

As John hoped, it never reached the dimensional tear, instead rebounding off the obsidium metal of his shield and streaking harmlessly off into the night sky.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t anticipated the force the energy stream would carry (not that it would have made any difference; there is only so much bracing one is capable of when one is 5’7”).

John lost his grip on his shield as he flew through the air. He had one thought to spare to be glad that his revolver was safe in its holster before he impacted painfully with one of the remaining walls and fell into darkness.

**

When John returned to consciousness, it was to a pounding head and the sound of yelling.

“You utter _moron_ ,” he heard Aristotle spit angrily from somewhere nearby. “Do you have any idea what your horrifically ill-timed actions could have _done?_ ”

John opened a blurry eye to see Aristotle’s enraged face floating upside down in front of him. He blinked in surprise, and as his sense of orientation righted itself, he realized he was lying on his back with his head held almost protectively in the other man’s hands. The cool, delicate fingers running over his scalp were no doubt searching for any cracks that may be present, but they soothed the pounding of John’s head like a balm. As the pain receded slightly, John realized his right arm was slightly singed, the cape on that side burnt entirely to ashes. Everything else seemed to be in working order.

“No one told him to throw himself in front of a beam of dark magick!” Acrobattle sounded highly offended—dropping the pretentious manner of speech he typically employed—and John shifted his eyes to see him standing some few metres away.

“Unsurprisingly, you’re missing the point entirely. His actions saved all of us from what would have been the _catastrophic_ consequences of your blunder.” Aristotle had noticed that John was awake, and uncharacteristically gentle hands helped pull him up to lean against a convenient bit of masonry. “I told you we shouldn’t have invited him,” Aristotle said to John, making no attempt to lower his voice. “He’s an idiot and a menace.”

Acrobattle lifted his chin belligerently at the words and gestured to the line of destroyed robots behind him on the rubble-strewn floor. “Well _my_ actions worked, didn’t they? So get off your damn high horse, you pasty freak!”

Aristotle was still crouched near John, so John was perfectly placed to see when his eyes went abruptly cold, along with the air around them.

“Freak, am I?,” Aristotle questioned in low, dangerous tones as he straightened slowly from his crouch. “It’s amusing that one such as yourself feels justified using that appellation for another. Your ability is hardly ‘normal,’ after all. Your powers are anatomical in nature, correct? Enhanced agility and strength?”

Acrobattle’s face went grey as the temperature of the air dropped another few degrees. He took a couple of steps backwards. “I-, that is, I…”

John heaved himself to his feet—bruises protesting the movement—and lightly grabbed Aristotle’s wrist to try to halt disaster before it could begin. “Um, bit not good, there.”

Aristotle seemed incredibly startled, but he didn’t jerk away, instead staring at John’s hand as though he had no idea how it had gotten there and even less understanding of its purpose. It wasn’t the best of reactions, but John was encouraged that he allowed the touch at all.

John leaned closer to Aristotle and dropped his voice, all too aware of Acrobattle watching them. At least the other individuals present were insensate. “It’s alright,” he said. “We’re alright. Save it for the bad guys.”

After another extended, vaguely confused look at the placement of John’s hand, Aristotle nodded—a jerky motion completely at odds with his typically graceful movements—and John relaxed.

Acrobattle apparently took this as a signal as well, and he turned to John with eyes that were rather too wide and a sickly grin. “Nice working with the two of you, mates. I’ve got to run along now, I just realized. You’ll be fine with this lot, yeah? Good to know.” And without waiting for a response, he was gone in a rush of disturbed plasterboard dust and metal shavings.

“Well,” John said to the empty space left behind. “I suppose we should have expected that.”

He turned to Aristotle, maintaining a calm, casual tone. “I don’t suppose you have any extra rope in your pockets?”

It took a moment, but Aristotle’s lips quirked up in something that was almost recognizable as amusement (though he still looked a bit tense about the eyes), and the invisible, intangible pressure that had built in the air released. “Not at present.”

John gave a sigh and felt himself relax along with it. “Best get to it, then. Maybe there’s some wire around somewhere we can use while we wait for the police to arrive.”

“We could always hit them on the head again.”

“Let’s call that plan B. Get searching, partner,” John replied, nudging aside a bit of wall near his feet to see if any twine was fortuitously present.

It took him a moment to realize Aristotle hadn’t answered, and he faced the other man with an eyebrow quirked questioningly.

“As a rule, I don’t dig about in rubble,” Aristotle said, a mite quickly, as though he realized John had caught the pause. “But don’t let me stop you. You’re doing a marvellous job of it.”

John rolled his eyes as he went back to the search, making it slow and obvious enough that Aristotle was sure to see. “Please. No more praise. You’ll embarrass me.”

He peeked up occasionally while rooting through the wreckage to see Aristotle staring at his own hand—the spot where John had touched him—with a bemused, but pleased, smile on his face.

John smiled as well.

**

“Should I be confirming his intentions, then?” Harry asked him, voice cheerful to the point of giddiness. To John’s shock, she had agreed to meet him at the zoo, and—despite the disapproval implied by the words—her mood had been one of excited enthusiasm all day.

John leaned back on the bench and watched the lemurs caper about their enclosure. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re just going to be teaming up for a while, that’s all. See how it works out.”

“He bought you _clothes_.”

“ _I_ bought me clothes. He just put me in contact with a tailor after my uniform disintegrated.” The cape had been edited out in the redesign, and John wasn’t sorry to see it go: a new costume for a new…life. He was even thinking of taking on a new name, though he had no idea what it would be. It was rather freeing.

“You’re moving in together,” his sister pointed out, as though he had somehow managed to forget this ( _insane_ ) fact.

“Easier to watch each other’s backs,” John replied, more easily than he really should have been able to, given the mix of anticipation and anxiety that the words kindled in him. Not that it was even possible to fool Harry. “And besides, it’ll be more affordable with the two of us. Good security systems aren’t cheap.”

Harry stared at him for a minute, but John kept his eyes on the animals at play in front of him.

She sighed and set back on the bench. “You’re hopeless. _Especially_ when there’s a pretty face involved.” She paused a moment. “And don’t you dare tell him I said that,” she muttered.

“It runs in the family.”

She punched him in the arm, and they winced in tandem.

Harry sighed, leaning her head on John’s shoulder. He put his arm around her shoulder automatically, the way he always had, once he grew taller than her.

“Just don’t get kidnapped, alright?” she said. “I’ve never had a sidekick myself, but from what I understand, they make excellent targets. Good leverage and all.”

“Still not a sidekick, but I’ll do my best to avoid that.”

“See that you do. The last thing London needs is him going on a rampage trying to find you.” Harry’s eyes went a bit wicked. “Though, I myself wouldn’t mind seeing a bit of a good rampage. It would be epic. Before the mass casualties and destruction that would no doubt result, of course. At the very least, it would be entertaining.”

“Well, so long as you’re entertained,” John said dryly.

“Exactly,” she said, grinning approvingly, as though he had managed to suss out a particularly difficult concept. John had always hated the expression, but he let it lie. He hadn’t seen his sister so happy in a very long time.

Or perhaps that was the lemurs. Sometimes it was difficult to tell.

Still, Harry smiling was something he could get behind, so his only response was to lift his arm from back around her shoulders and ruffle her somewhat raggedy hair. “And now that I’m back in town, we can have a team-up.”

She grabbed his hand with a superior smile and stopped it mussing her hair. “Not likely,” she scoffed. “I wouldn’t be seen in public teaming up with a sidekick. What would people think?”

“Really not a sidekick.”

Harry still wasn’t listening, but she leaned back on the bench and pressed against his side to watch the lemurs. The sun was still several hours from setting, and the heat of it painted an almost unpleasantly warm stripe across his legs as he sat there at the zoo with his highly disapproving lesbian empath sister.

And once the sun did set, John would return to his new flat with its strange (presumably deadly) chemicals and apparatuses strewn across every conceivable surface and his strange (equally deadly) and ofttimes unconceivable new maniac partner.

And somewhere along the way, John realized, his life had reached a point where there was nothing that he’d change.


End file.
